


Flashcards

by colectiva



Category: Mother of the Year (Visual Novel)
Genre: (bondage is light and loving?) tied up with a silk tie, (male sub) kinda, Body Worship, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, F/M, Light Bondage, Oral Sex, er i guess, face sitting but it's more of a hover..., female receiving, if you squint..., male receiving, some very very brief and gentle, there's a bit of a back and forth powerplay, underwear gagging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:33:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28364712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colectiva/pseuds/colectiva
Summary: Thomas motivates Natalia to study ahead of an important exam.
Relationships: Thomas Mendez/Main Character (Mother of the Year)
Kudos: 8





	Flashcards

**Author's Note:**

> There's some pretentious art talk.  
> Just been thinking about the lawyer man a lot lately.

**She’s misplaced at least a century’s worth of Byzantine art history.**

Natalia thinks she’s going crazy. She’s searched the apartment top to bottom for the remaining flashcards she spent the last four weeks meticulously curating – only to lose them a week before the exam.

_How?_

The doorbell rings, making her jump while she’s elbow deep in her purse and she curses under her breath.

She is in no state to welcome unannounced guests – mentally or physically.

Natalia has been studying morning, noon, and night ahead of her Medieval Art History exam and has thought of nothing else since. She’s been roaming the apartment in an old worn shirt and some knee-high socks she found at the back of her drawer, finding the matter of a laundry low on her list of priorities with the test right around the corner.

The only reason she doesn’t pretend not to be home is because of who’s at the door.

It’s Thomas, looking adorable and compassionate – balancing a small pastry box in one hand, while running the other nervously through his hair. He attempts and fails not to stare at her shapely legs when the door swings open; Natalia greets him with a wide smile.

He steps inside as quickly as he can, the familiar flush that follows him when Natalia’s involved already finding its place on the high points of his cheeks.

“I was worried you weren’t taking breaks,” he begins. “With the exam a week away, I thought, maybe—you know, you might—want a treat?”

She fights back a smug grin, listening to him stumble over his words and noticing the way his eyes flit to her legs before freezing. The faded shirt, the one sinfully brushing the top of her thighs, he soon recognises is his.

No doubt stolen from his dresser from one of their many nights spent together.

“So, you come bearing gifts?” she asks, bringing his attention away from ankles, knees, calves, up to the box in his hand.

“Huh? _Oh_ , yes—gifts, well—not exactly a gift. It’s the eclairs from the patisserie around the corner from the courthouse,” her mouth is already watering. “You liked them so much that I thought you could do with a moment away from the books?” 

Natalia rises to the tips of her toes and lands a quick kiss on his cheek—this time earning her a smile from the lawyer.

“That’s very sweet. Thank you, Thomas,” she plants her hands against the front of his suit, smoothing out the prickly fabric there. “Do you have time for coffee or will you have to head back to the office?”

“I took the rest of the day off,” he laces his fingers with hers, brushing his lips across her knuckles. “I thought—with the girls away at camp…it might be nice to catch up?”

“Mmm…coffee, eclairs, and your undivided attention…music to my ears.”

The coffee brews and eventually the rich, earthy aroma is filling the apartment while Thomas tells her about his day. She’s halfway through an eclair when she notices how hungry she really is. Without Maria Camilla around, and the exam, her eating schedule has gone out the window.

Hesitantly, Thomas asks how the studying is coming along and he almost regrets it when he sees her shoulders slump, half-eaten pastry already forgotten on her plate.

Natalia runs him through her study schedule, the material she’s managed to cover, and the amount she worries she still has to check off. Then, there’s the issue of a large portion of her flashcards going missing. 

She confesses she’s losing her motivation and focus – her confidence shaky.

“I’ll help you,” he says, decidedly placing his mug back down on the kitchen table. Natalia frowns before sucking residue chocolate off the pad of her index.

“How?”

“You’ve been studying for this exam for the past month,” he chuckles and reaches over to swipe a smidge of chocolate from the corner of her mouth. She watches him absentmindedly lick it clean from his thumb. “You’re more like your daughter than you think. Trust me, _you know the material_.”

“How are you so sure of that?”

But Thomas is already standing up, walking towards her bedroom, where he knows she’s spent hours upon hours hunched over her desk, highlighting text, and making a mess with post-it notes.

Natalia follows him and she quirks her brow when he pauses right before her door.

He leans against its frame, hands in his pockets, and looks at her expectantly – gesturing for her to enter first.

“I’ll prove it to you,” he chuckles; something mischievous dancing behind his eyes and it thrills her. As she steps past him and into her bedroom, she can still feel his gaze on her, wondering for the first time that afternoon just how much of her backside is _really_ covered by his shirt.

She takes her usual seat behind her desk, spinning around to face Thomas who’s getting comfortable at the edge of the bed. He nods at the abandoned flashcards, reaching for them—leaning just close enough to let the waft of his expensive cologne taunt her— and begins to shuffle through them like a deck of cards.

Natalia steals this moment to get her fill of him—neatly combed over hair, with the faint greying at his temples, and serious lines etching his handsome face. His lips curl into a natural frown when concentration settles, the little crease between his brows deepening.

This must be a foreign language to him…the way he flips the cards, reading them back to front – chewing on the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. She can’t imagine what it must be like, to rewire your brain from reading legalese to Italian iconography in less than an hour.

“God, you’re so handsome.”

The words slip out in the stillness of her room. The only thing to rival the inconspicuous whisper is the humming from her brick of a laptop and the loud groaning of the ancient fridge from the kitchen.

Thomas tears his eyes away, acknowledging her comment briefly with a small, private smile, and an indiscernible emotion flickers across his face before he returns to her flashcards.

It’s her turn to grow warm, embarrassed that she barely has control over her attraction—romantically involved or not, the effect he has on her is daunting.

“Right, I have an idea…something to… _motivate_ you,” he announces, clearing his throat as if he’s about to address the court. Thomas neatly stacks the cards against his thigh, ensuring not a single one is out of place.

Natalia quirks a dark eyebrow. It’s hard not to miss the way he’s fighting the corner of his mouth from lifting.

“I’m listening,” she says cautiously.

He meets her curious gaze, blue-grey eyes steadfast that their intensity make her skin prickle and shift in her seat.

“I’m going to quiz you,” Thomas starts. “For every right answer you get, I’ll take an article of clothing off. For every wrong answer, _you_ take something off.”

It doesn’t go unnoticed, the way his eyes trace the span of her legs again—stopping right at frayed edge of his shirt. Some 10K he ran in law school for the local animal shelter.

Natalia chuckles, propping her feet next to his knees and keeps her thighs pressed together. It’s turned into a game, teasing him… maybe the shirt will slip a little further and she’ll allow him the sight of her skin he so clearly wants to devour.

“Now, _counselor_ ,” she says, but the way his Adam’s apple bobs she knows there’s nothing playful about how he feels when he’s addressed that way by her. “I can’t help but feel at a disadvantage here… don’t you think I’m a little… outnumbered?”

She points at his suit, tie, and dress shoes—there’s no need to indicate to herself. Thomas has already made careful inventory of _his_ shirt, those cotton socks, and the brief glimpse at the lace hugging the curve of her ass when she walked by him.

That’s it.

That’s all she’s wearing.

Because in the last few minutes, the outline of her nipples grazing his shirt have monopolised his thoughts.

Natalia sways lightly in her chair, hips swivelling left and right, as indicative by the way her calves strain and slack.

Thomas stops her, his hand wrapping around the dark grey cotton and feels the muscle there contract.

“Hence, the incentive.”

“It seems like I don’t have a lot of room for error,” she refutes with a smirk.

“No. No, you don’t,” and he tries to keep his face serious. “And if you do get any of them wrong…you won’t forget the next time around. The memory of losing to me will be too embarrassing—game theory and all that.”

“I didn’t take you for an econometrician,” Natalia chuckles.

“Hmm…yes, I took a class in my senior year of undergrad—or… maybe…was that a game of strip poker?” His gaze flits from the cards, letting her in on a smile, and she rolls her eyes playfully.

“Okay, deal me in then.”

Thomas starts with the Rule of St Benedict and she flies through the first three questions.

He removes his tie, placing it neatly on the edge of her bed before he tauntingly moves to take off both his shoes.

They push on to the distinguishing characteristics of Renaissance and Byzantine art and she stumbles before pausing thoughtfully—missing out vanishing points.

Much too slow for his liking, Natalia peels off one sock and throws it somewhere in the corner.

However, she makes up for it in the following three questions, and watches with a self-satisfied grin as Thomas shrugs off his suit’s jacket and does away with his socks.

And then she misses the mark again, thanks to the Fourth Crusade— _how many crusades did they need to have, honestly_ — and reluctantly removes the other sock.

“Getting dangerously close to losing, Ms Day,” Thomas tuts, shuffling through the cards. With an open, sweeping glance he takes in her newly-uncovered legs, perilously close to his hands that itch to reach out and just—

“Whatever you say, _counselor_.”

He inhales sharply, focusing on the cards and not at the sultry depth of her tone.

She nails the question on Cretan School and the western influence, which he was certain she would flounder at when asked. But he doesn’t mind all too much because her breathing shallows, watching his fingers work the buttons of his shirt with excruciating slow precision.

Natalia damns him.

Thomas makes a show of folding it, the muscles in his arms contracting when he smooths the fabric over his lap again and again, before adding it to his neat pile at the corner of the bed.

And then, through a breathy gasp—eyes tracing the firm lines of his chest—she manages to just barely stutter out her response to the revival of ivory carving. She swallows, thinking how no marble statue in Italy detailing the male physique holds a flame to Thomas—slowly unbuckling his belt, eyes trained on hers, pupils blown and nearly engulfing his irises.

Chin tipped up, in an almost cocky display, exposing the column of his throat (the place she loves landing messy kisses in the heat of their embrace). His hands, always so firm and decisive, tug the leather out of the belt loops with fluid ease.

A jolt of need shoots through her, mouth growing dry as he winds it around his hand.

Thomas drops it on top of his folded button down.

“Well, if I’m correct,” his eyes dart to the front of her t-shirt… to her hardened nipples. “I think we’ve reached a crucial moment. Next question…” and he says it as if they haven’t just been consuming the other with hungry gazes.

He sifts through the flashcards, abandoning some every so often in the discard pile. It makes Natalia squirm, the crease between his eyebrows deeper than ever before—concentrating on the questions as he decides which ones might or might not work in his favour.

All she knows is if one of them does not lose soon _she_ will lose her mind.

“In Byzantine Comnenian period, between 1081–1185—”

_Fuck_.

“—and if you know the terminology, what was its purpose?”

Stumped.

_Bastard_.

He no longer holds back that self-assured twist to his lips, and he taps the flashcard against the rest of the stack.

He isn’t making it easy on her, sitting there shirtless and the memory of him rolling the leather of his belt around his hand defiantly.

When Natalia hesitates, he knows he’s won and the smirk on his face is unending.

She swallows, stealing herself for the worst. “Uh…portable—portable…I—I don’t know the term.”

Thomas slips the flashcard back in the pile with a decisive tap and grins, leaning back slightly and she drinks him in. She presses her thighs together and his eyes flit to the action.

“Wrong,” and he says it to her legs.

Natalia has had enough and she stands before him. Imposing and thrumming with purpose. Thomas watches every movement expectantly, and the self-satisfied smile slips off his face.

One leg rises after the other, settling at either side of his hips—her position causing him to lean back on his elbows while she settles on his lap. Her pulse quickens, doubling up when she feels the strain in his trousers for the first time.

Mercilessly, she presses herself flush against him and it’s her turn to look smug. His breath hitches. Barely covered in flimsy lace, the press of her offers little relief to the ache of his hard length.

She finds the smooth planes of his chest, warm and near-feverish under her touch. Natalia stops short of shivering at the sensation, at how she still manages to make him flush with longing with a single move.

“Now,” she says— _no_ —purrs into his ear, leaning into him so he feels the brush of worn cotton on wanting skin. A hand glides up and towards the back of his head to play with a lone curl. “Which one will it be? For being such a good tutor…I’ll allow you the privilege of picking…”

Thomas opens and closes his mouth, thoroughly distracted by the pressure of her hips sinking into his.

His face burns when she plants a quick kiss against the shell of his ear, working her way down the junction of his jaw and neck—and she repeats her question.

“Top,” she whispers against his chin. “or bottom?”

A loud shaky, sigh brings her attention to his lips and he whispers.

“Bottom.”

It’s almost cruel, the smile that takes over her pretty face. A knowing and crass curve that says so much with so little movement.

Of course, he’d pick the scrap of lace she calls underwear.

“Okay,” she nods and places another kiss nowhere near his mouth. Thomas’ fingers dig into hips, as if this wordless command would make her cooperate.

Instead, breathy chuckles meet his cheek—dragging her lips back to the spot behind his ear, where pinewood and citrus fill her senses, the spot that makes him groan aloud for the first time.

The sound pools heat in her lower belly, writhing in his lap and adding to the noise with her quiet pants. The ridge in his trousers twitches uncomfortable. There’s very little material left between them, and from the way she moves, he knows— _fuck, he just knows_ — she’s wet and ready for him.

His restraint cracks. He cups the back of her head, bringing her down on top of him in a bruising kiss – his back meeting the mattress.

Natalia quivers at the warmth of his mouth slanting over hers, and he kisses her with unyielding certainty. Because it’s that honesty, weaved into his nature, which transpires in everything he does, right down to the way his tongue slides against hers.

It’s real and raw and tells her everything she’s ever needed know.

To tell her—remind her—he wants her. He’s _always_ wanted her.

The kiss is all teeth and tongue, and eager mewling, which makes Natalia grind down desperately. He responds, tugging at her lower lip and bucking upwards, meeting every roll of her hips with his own – delirious from the desire clouding their minds.

His hands, deft and cursory, roam the curve of her backside, the lace that’s taunted him. Fingers sink into the flesh there, keeping her unabashedly close to his erection – demanding her attention. The other explores the arch of her spine, palm flattening right below her shoulder blade so he can feel the press of her breasts through the shirt.

And he’s had enough of that shirt.

Without warning, Thomas finds the hem and yanks it up and over her head. Natalia barely has a second to register what’s happening and fumbles to get rid of it, sitting up and breaking the kiss.

Unmoving, he drinks her in— straddling him, kiss-bitten lips, tussled hair, and pert nipples. Thomas’ chest and cheeks are flushed, hair no longer neatly combed, undone by her hands. His breathing reduced to ragged bursts while he continues to study her.

He’s about to reach out, brush her untouched skin—sinfully soft in the lighting of her bedroom. The setting sun washes her in its warm orange hues.

Natalia catches his wrist right before he can get close enough, and that teasing, cruel smirk returns to her face.

“Awfully handsy today, aren’t you, Mr Mendez?”

He swallows and lets the silence speak for him. She adjusts herself on his lap with painful purpose and he groans.

“Now,” Natalia sits up straight and throws a glance over her shoulder at his forgotten pile of clothes. “Leather or silk?”

She bites down on her lower lip, enjoying the inevitable response beneath her. It’s not like she’s doing any better… as if the wetness gathering between her thighs wasn’t making an embarrassing mess.

“Well?”

His mouth is dry and he knows, from experience, Natalia does not enjoy repeating herself.

The words are quiet as they slip past his rosy, wet lips—hardly believing them as they’re spoken.

“S-silk.”

“Hmm…” she squeezes the wrist in her grip and plants her free hand on his chest. She stares down at him intently. “Are you sure? You’re not going to change your mind halfway through… like you just did with my shirt?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he tosses his head back when she rolls her hips boldly. “No, no. I won’t. I promise—I-I won’t.”

“Silk?”

“Yes,” he releases a shuddering gasp and nods to confirm.

His choice tells her everything he wants and needs, and to make sure he knows she’s listening, she brushes a kiss to the inside of his wrist—lips ghosting over his palm before placing lighter ones on the pads of his fingers.

Anticipation heightens his arousal while she takes her sweet time. Leaning back, reaching over, and deliberately knocking the leather belt. The clink of the buckle sends a shiver through him and he curses silently.

He’s always one searing kiss away from choosing leather.

Slippery, blue silk runs through her fingers. His lips part, impatience makes his mind race to all his favourite sinful places, and draws in a calming breath. 

His fingers twitch anxiously, restlessly, pressing into the tops of her thighs; keeping his eyes trained on the path his tie takes over the ridges of her knuckles.

“Ready?”

He can only manage a jerky nod, sitting up, and holding his palms upwards and towards her in a quiet offering.

Without wasting any more time, Natalia starts looping it around his wrists and positioning his hands with practiced ease, continuously checking on him as she secures the knot she creates. Thomas nods each time, swallowing back a moan.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

Natalia finds his mouth again and, this time around, the pace is sensuous, drawn out. The understanding of where the remainder of the afternoon, and possibly the evening, is heading lights that electric spark in her belly.

She needs him, she hadn’t realised until this moment – beautifully willing and at her command with blushing cheeks and neck – how much she needs Thomas.

“Tell me what you want,” she encourages in between teasing his tongue with hers. “Tell me.”

Getting Thomas to beg has never been the issue.

No.

He’d happily— eagerly— do so.

And he does, so _so_ prettily, each time.

No.

It’s getting Thomas to tell her exactly what he wants and how he wants it in explicit detail.

How could she not? Especially after she discovers how talented he is at painting vivid, lewd scenarios with airy, embarrassed pants.

Thomas’ response is staggered. “I—I want to make you feel good…”

“How?”

He chases after her lips, diving forward, but she pulls away deliberately.

“I— I—” it’s torture. For someone who talks and talks for a living, having to tell her the details of his dirtiest fantasies proves difficult. “I want to make you come, please.”

Natalia shakes her head, her thumb tracing the line of his lower lip. His eyelids hang heavy and she almost gives in and ends her own silly game.

“No begging,” she reminds him, gentle and unhurried, and presses a kiss to his pleading mouth, breaking it off before he can deepen it. She holds his chin between her index and thumb, and strokes the barely-there stuble. “You’re so good at making lists, darling…”

He takes a deep breath and just when Natalia think she’s going to have to coax it out of him with another kiss, he groans.

“I want you to fuck my mouth, I want to taste— _feel_ you on my tongue—make you come until your legs shake and you’re screaming my name. Then I— when you’re done getting yourself off, I—I want—I want you to suck me and,” he takes another steadying gulp of air before his lips form the words, _“ride me_.”

His hips twitch involuntarily, rocking to meet hers, and she does a poor job holding back a small whine.

Because she wants it too—all of it—right now.

“Okay,” she nods, trying to keep her tone even, as if she isn’t salivating at the thought of him heavy and warm against her tongue. “Lay back against the pillows.”

Thomas does as he’s told, elevating his head with her help.

“Arms up,” she says, entranced by the movement. “That’s it. All the way up against the headboard. Can you knock on the wood for me?”

He raps it once, twice, three times, and makes it clear he remembers their signals.

And he waits, with the patience of something otherworldly, until she places a knee at either side of his arms – his face – and she grips the headboard for purchase. His fingers contract, flexing into fists.

She parts the lace to one side and Thomas visibly swallows at the sight.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he exhales shakily, and the small pulse of breath meets her sensitive, wanting folds.

The word ‘ _now_ ’ has never hung in the air with more significance.

Before Natalia can lower herself any further, before she can position herself comfortably, before she can—

Thomas’ mouth meets centre with renewed ambition – _hunger_ – and all she can feel is his hot tongue licking a wide stripe, parting her, sliding along her slick heat.

It’s not so much that the faintest touch almost sends her careening over the edge, but the unrestrained moan that follows – vibrating against her clit. 

The sound rumbles from deep inside him, low and desperate. It’s relief and the beginnings of insatiability. He mouths her sex, ravenously, letting out breathy, eager pants, and Natalia has to stop herself from fully grinding down against his perfect lips.

There it is. That friction, that pressure, that attention she’s been seeking from the moment he gave her that tiny, private smile.

That deliberate touch that makes the spark in her belly relay shocks through her arms, legs, and down her spine. That touch that has her tipping her head back and then forward again as moan after moan spills from her, words that start as English and fade into unintelligible sounds.

He swirls and laps and flicks. No, there is no more room for coherency. The only thing she truly understands is the pounding of her heart against her too tight rib cage, the haze of lust falling over them growing thicker with every filthy thing he details in between each roll of his tongue.

Thomas tells her he can’t get enough of how she tastes, how her wet she’s getting, that she’s making _such a beautiful mess._ He tells her _how_ he wants her to fuck his mouth – and, _oh god_ , is she this wet _just for him_?

Natalia bites her lip, gazes down past her body to look at him – truly look at him. His eyebrows are knitted together, brow furrowed, eyes tightly shut. Pure unrestrained pleasure lines his face as he continues to relentlessly lavish her centre with stiff, hard strokes.

Rolling her hips, failing to follow the patterns he draws, she feels the muscles of his biceps flex at her legs. His hands are tense balled fists, fighting the urge to use anything other than his mouth.

He wants to touch her, add a finger, then another – and if she’s good – curl them until she lets out those throaty cries, lifting her hips off the bed. His free hand would hold her still, keeping her in place, and work her open until she can’t take anymore.

But this? The reward that comes from pulling those sweet noises and stuttered pleas from just his tongue – the rush of arousal, molten hot in his abdomen, is like nothing else he’s ever experienced.

She reaches for him and caresses the ridge of cheek, coloured her favourite shade of pink.

Does he know how beautiful he looks like this? Nose nuzzled into her dark curls, head tilting just a fraction to left, then to the right, tipping his chin, adding new angles to the pleasure.

Thomas opens his eyes, blue-grey irises nearly eclipsed by the black – staring back at her with a dreamy gaze, completely captivated by his determination to make her sing.

“You do that so— _oh!_ ”

It’s when he tongues her entrance she nearly loses all rationality. The tips of her fingers go white squeezing the wood, fighting back the inviting heat that wants to envelop her and lull her into a new shade of bliss.

_Not yet. Not yet. Not yet._

She practically climbs the headboard, clutching tightly, as if it’s the only thing keeping her tethered and stopping her from finding out what waits for her at the edge – prepared to take her.

She’s not ready for it to end, not now when she’s burning this hot and bright and her skin feels like there’s hundreds of little fires starting. If only she could hold on a little longer – listen to the dirty things he says that makes her heat flutter and ache for more.

But he bucks his hips into nothing, his own desire begging to be acknowledged, and he moans something obscene that sounds like: “ _Fuck this mouth_.”

And she does.

His tongue stiffens and stills right where she needs it the most, and she revels at the new tension she can writhe against.

When he wraps his lips around her sensitive bud and sucks, hard, with skilled focus, the chance to prolong her pleasure slips through her fingers. Instead, she threads them through his damp curls while her other hand grips onto the headboard for dear life.

Her orgasm rocks through her like an angry current, thousands of buzzing lights of electricity bloom behind her eyelids, and his name is rendered to two long vowels. Her hips twist and squirm with no precise rhythm – chasing the waves of _yes_ and _more_ and _just like that_ – and he refuses to stop until she rides out every single one.

She floats back down, and registers the sharp rise and fall of her chest first and then the trembling of her inner thighs and their hold of Thomas’ arms and face.

He kisses her sweetly, lapping at her softer, gentler, swirling his tongue with a barely-there touch that her overly stimulated body will allow briefly. Natalia struggles to hold herself up and presses her sweaty brow to her forearms, shuffling her lower body away from Thomas.

“Still okay?”

She’s surprised at how breathless and weak she sounds and looks down at him.

He smiles.

An open, kind smile – as if just seconds ago he didn’t ruin her and use that mouth as a messenger for his filthiest thoughts – and Natalia feels the beating of butterflies’ wings in her stomach.

“Perfect.”

His fingers uncurl and trace the skin of her forearms, extending just enough for a feather-light caress that makes her body come to life again. She supresses a moan, but he doesn’t miss the way her nipples pinch at the barest of touches.

_The list_ , she remembers, awkwardly shifting away from the top of the bed.

There’s a list to get through and they’re only halfway there.

Painfully hard, he watches, with great regret, as she readjusts her underwear. She lines up their hips again and settles against the ridge of his tailored pants.

He doesn’t know where she sources the self-control to not _move_ where he needs it the most, but she’s going to kill him if she keeps this up.

It’s only fair he retaliates.

Thomas finds her gaze, the pink of his tongue peeking out and running along his lower lip before he sucks it in. He tastes the remnants of her arousal, tart and sweet the longer it lingers – he misses her already.

Natalia can’t tear her eyes away. His face is still wet and the slow journey of his tongue sends a pang of jealousy through her – at the attention she’s no longer getting from it.

And she wants a taste.

There’s no tenderness in the kiss they share this time around when Natalia tastes herself on his tongue – _only her_ – and the urgency to have all of him intensifies.

Impatience is palpable with every stroke of her tongue as she answers to the hunger building inside Thomas. He’s done waiting and he makes it known when he drags his teeth across her bottom lip.

She finds the stubbled line of his jaw, the sweat on his neck and on the curve and dip of his collarbone – spurring on the scorching path she leaves on his skin.

Lower and lower, she nips at flesh – at all her favourite freckles splattered across his shoulders, his chest, the lines at his hips – and there’s three in particular she always pays special note of, lavishing them in attention…where tongue and teeth mar him rosy red after she’s had her fill.

She smiles against the first freckle when the sounds of his strained moaning meet her ears.

Orion’s belt.

Across the firm lines of his abdomen, three dark freckles line up perfectly, temptingly, daringly. The second that almost hides in the ridge of his muscle, and the last that guides her to the coarse, sparse hairs that disappear beyond the elastic of his underwear.

Thomas jerks his hips, the word _more_ is just a croak when she pauses to study her handiwork.

“So impatient,” she chuckles, tracing the outline down from his stomach and over the bulge at the front of his pants.

But so is she.

Natalia removes his trousers and underwear with the same impatience she just taunted him over – tossing it over the bedside, and Thomas moans in relief when his length springs free.

The pathetic lace between her thighs never stood a chance. She feels a rush of arousal course through her, warm and dizzying in her veins.

Soaked.

Sitting there between his naked thighs, she takes him in – all of him.

No database, no gallery’s cold underground archives could ever lead her to something as breath taking.

None of the textbooks she’s thumbed through with detailed marbled carvings on glossy pages could compare to Thomas; touched by the sun (nearly gone now and dipped) through her bedroom window.

Michelangelo. Bernini. Rossetti—

_Oh,_ if Rossetti could catch sight of him right now.

Stretched out before her, arms high up above his head so his muscles flex in new and unwonted outlines.

He reminds her of a pre-Raphaelite wet dream – all wild, tussled hair (red hues accentuated by the dying sun) and _Bocca Baciata_ – kissed mouth.

Those lips, swollen and wet, with irregular trembling breaths slipping past them.

That mouth…how did the poem go again?

_…a mouth, made to bring death to life—the underlip, sucked in, as if it strove to kiss itself._

Perfection.

_This_.

_This_ she could study all day.

The velvet skin of his cock meets eager fingertips, feeling its warmth when she tentatively wraps her hand around him. Thomas hisses, head sinking back into the pillows, and tearing his fixated gaze away from her.

A bead of precum glistens on his head and she wants, _needs_ , it against her tongue. But Natalia stops herself and focuses on slowly pumping him once, spreading it around with her thumb, and listening to the sounds he makes – much more gratifying than the immediate taste of him.

Open-mouthed kisses travel up the muscle of his thigh bracketing her body, but she releases him the moment he bucks into her hand and a frustrated sound that mingles with a moan escapes Thomas.

“Natalia, _please_.”

She pulls away completely and frowns in faux-disapproval.

“What did I say?”

And he misses the heat of her body, once so close now distant and at the edge of the bed where she stands – he could _whimper_ at the sight of her removing her underwear.

Crawling back to him, he waits for her with measured anticipation. Her body brushes up the length of him, nipples grazing him over the spots she kissed her way down earlier, her thigh meeting his cock.

His hands curl into tense fists once more.

He doesn’t dare make a sound, keeping his eyes trained on the way she folds and balls up the lacy, ruined material in her hands. A small shiver trails down his back, struggling to swallow.

“No begging,” she says and holds the delicate fabric to his lips, which part all-too-eagerly – trembling and taking a shaky breath. He watches her through dark eyelashes, heady heat hooding his eyes. “Open.”

He tastes her again. It’s different …and yet familiar and just as intoxicating. Thomas tries his hardest to fight through the fog, but all he can think about is how full his mouth is of her scent, the tang of her arousal, the way he made her shake.

How she just needs him to _shut up_ and let her _take care of him_ for once.

“Knock if you need me to stop,” she’s running her tongue along his pulse point, jumping frantically as she works down his chest again, “or if you have anything _important_ to say,” the air of her chuckle brushes the crease where his leg meets his body.

There’s something about the way his moans muffle through her underwear, when she finally takes his head in her mouth, which leaves her wanting to reach between her legs and ease the throbbing of her clit.

Her head spins from his _loud_ and _deep_ groans when she rolls her tongue along the tip – tasting everything she denied herself before.

_“Oh fuck…_ ”

And while she’s here to take care of him, to answer any filthy whim he can dream up, Natalia can’t help but indulge. She allows herself enjoy how he feels when she flattens her tongue, the way his abdomen contracts when she stiffens the tip and runs it up his length.

Repeating the action again and again until his entire chest if a freckled, flushed mess.

A palm lays at his hip, keeping him from moving, while he silently begs her to take him deeper. But she’s not done tasting him, lapping at his head, adding a hand to pump him into her mouth – feeling how heavy he is on her tongue.

If she didn’t already know he was close from the noises he’s making (still deliciously muffled), lower, deeper – three successive knocks on wood makes her pull away with a wet pop.

He’s looking down at her with pleading eyes. His chest heaving in a failed attempt to control his breathing, his jittery pulse, the jackhammering of his heart in his ribcage.

Something in her snaps.

She removes her underwear from his mouth and tosses it to the side, not allowing him a second to adjust to the sudden emptiness – instead filling his mouth with her own kiss.

Can he taste himself on her tongue? Or is he still so full of _her_?

A knee sits at either side of his hips now, _oh she needs_ _him_ , and she settles against him. She wants to go up, up, up with him. She wants to meet him where he is right now, near the drugging point of no return. She misses it and she wants to be there with him – only him.

Natalia cradles his head, her thumbs at the edge of his jawline. The act a tender dichotomy to the pace she sets for the rough kiss. Thomas only breaks away to say in a puff of hot air against her wet lips: “ _Fuck me_.”

If she thought the word ‘ _now_ ’ held heavy significance before, the agonising distance and time it takes before their skin meets is too much.

She sinks down onto him, inch by inch, making her mouth slack open – a wordless cry when he’s completely sheathed inside her.

“ _Shit._ You’re so wet,” is all he can manage before a nonsensical grunt follows.

It takes her too long to move for his liking and Thomas snaps his hips upwards, no longer allowing Natalia decide the pace. An intense bolt of pleasure shoots through her, the kind that makes her squeeze her eyes so tightly shut she sees stars. The kind that renders her unable to stop the crass, high-pitched whine from bouncing off the walls.

It stirs something primal in him – he needs to hear it again, and he moves with the same intensity. He brushes her in all the right places, the angles he’s working make her forget any taunting remarks she might have been saving up for this moment.

She needs him to do it again, until the quivering muscles of her inner thighs give out, until they’re glistening from how turned on he’s made her.

And that’s when she begins to meet his thrusts, when her body starts crying for more, already so full of him.

The pace quickens, turning frenzied, and all she can register is the pounding of her heart. When she opens her eyes she finds him watching her — revering her— and she thinks this might be thing that breaks her.

He whispers. “Touch yourself for me.”

Her hand travels down between their feverish bodies, a finger finding— swirling against her clit, and relief starts to swells inside her.

“That’s it— _oh_ _fuck_ ,” he tosses his head back, never stopping the fervent bucking of his hips.

_God_ , he’s so beautiful like this. Does he know how beautiful he is? Tied up, moaning, ordering her around, thrusting—

It takes her by surprise this time. Creeps up on her as if she hadn’t been crooking her finger at it provokingly. Calling it towards her so she can feel the woozy way her thoughts become submerged in him, him— _fuck only him_.

All at once, it consumes her with a fire so hot and dominant she thinks _this is it_ , there’s no coming back from this one.

It’s soundless. Her jaw slacks open, head thrown back, air leaving her and all she is, is the pleasure he gives her.

He’ll follow soon after, there’ll be no stopping it, that wave that takes him under—all thanks to the sporadic and erratic way she moves her hips. His hands itch to touch her, tease her nipples, circle her clit until she’s ready to go again.

Then he feels her desperately working the knot of the tie. And he’s free.

Free to touch and pinch and get his fill of her skin, soft and damp from the fresh sheen of sweat.

That current, the one that he knows is going to take him under, starts at the base of his spine and is only magnified when he cups the weight of her breast in his hand, the other hungrily delving into the flesh of her ass.

She helps him ride it out when he goes taut, leaning over to swallow his cries in a sloppy kiss that starts at his lips, but ends up at the base of his neck when he calls her name—vibrating against her tongue.

He jerks once, twice, three times – and by the fourth he goes slack. Quiet, hot air hits her cheek before she settles next to him.

They lay in the silence, just the echo of their hearts, the humming of her laptop, and the groaning of the fridge.

Their limp hands loosely find each other in the dark.

_When did it get dark?_

“Iconostasis,” she says winded, eyebrows furrowed, and closing her eyes as the world rights itself again.

“Huh?”

“ _Iconostasis_ ,” she repeats, using the little energy she has to turn her head to face him. His eyes are also shut, his expression pinched as he regulates his breathing. “That’s the answer to the question you asked. I just remembered.”

And even though he’s reduced to ragged bursts of air, he attempts a laugh. Thomas rolls over until he’s on top of her, one trembling bicep holding him upright, caging her under his body, and he presses a kiss to her cheek.

“Oh, yeah? What do you say we take a shower and test what else you can remember?”

**Author's Note:**

> writing smut is like running a marathon and, man, am i out of shape. If you stuck with this to the end, you deserve a medal, thank you. i do my best to do pwp? i can’t….i’m always like: but the backstory.  
> Anyway I tried my best to edit so best believe I’ll continue to edit this forever.  
> This was inspired by a hilarious tumblr edit.


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